


Merry Little (Nanda Parbat) Christmas

by a_windsor



Series: Exile [12]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28184052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_windsor/pseuds/a_windsor
Summary: Stuck in Nanda Parbat for Christmas, Nyssa and the kids try to make the best of it for Sara.
Relationships: Nyssa al Ghul/Sara Lance
Series: Exile [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/286101
Comments: 16
Kudos: 90





	Merry Little (Nanda Parbat) Christmas

They’d intended to pass the holiday (sacred to Sara and therefore to Nyssa) on Paradise Island, as they have since Damian’s very first when not in the States, but they have duties that keep them long in Nanda Parbat. The series of winter storms that are battering the Hindu Kush have dashed any hopes of a last minute flight to the Mediterranean.

Nyssa watches Sara fight the disappointment. She can’t show it here. Nanda Parbat is home, especially for Nyssa and the children, but for Sara, too. However, they must be different in the hallowed halls of the League than they are on the island they also call home.

The unbridled silliness and joy that Sara has brought to all of Damian’s Christmases and was so happy to bring to the girls last year, simply has no place within these sandstone walls.

Still, before Damian, they passed at least a few Christmases here, and so Nyssa promises herself to find the time between all her other obligations to create some of what they call cheer for her family.

***

Damian scores an impressive hit on Fahd al Rasadat, and from her place in Umm Saleem’s lap, Soraya giggles and claps. Sara has long stopped questioning how a toddler, especially one of hers, can recognize a good sparring move, but two-year-old Soraya is particularly good at it.

They’re in one of Nanda Parbat’s interior training rooms, all thick stone walls, flickering torch light, and high-end training mats. Sara already ran the present Red and Gold through exercises and now they’ve broken into training pairs, Talibah running five-year-old Azra ( _Al Thill_ ) through an increasingly speedy series of drills while Fahd al Rasadat has chosen to simply wail on Sara’s ten-year-old. Damian, of course, is more than holding his own. Soraya trains with her siblings with wooden swords once a day, but for now, she doesn’t participate in full drills and sparring. Nyssa insists on being the children’s sole teacher until age four, a privilege trumped only by Ra’s al Ghul’s right to them.

In the dark room, tucked away from time and space, Sara can forget what she _should_ be doing right now: racing Damian to see who can finish their share of rafter garlands quickest, picking the perfect positioning of each tree ornament with Azra, and, well, she’s not sure what Soraya’s favorite holiday activity is going to be yet, but she can guess it will be highly energetic and probably include music.

They could, _would_ , still do all of that, once they’re back on Paradise Island in a bit, but it’ll be January by then, and that just doesn’t feel the same. But she can’t, won’t, pout now. She is Iradat al Ghul, her standard League blacks a second skin that transforms her, transforms them all, into Ra’s’s model family: the Heir, her consort, her own heirs. It is not that she minds this alter ego: it just doesn’t mesh well with Christmas, at all.

“Alright,” Sara calls out to Fahd al Rasadat. “Let’s give the old man a break.”

“You should be glad you outrank me, Taer al Asfer,” Fahd al Rasadat grins widely, even as he and Damian exchange respectful bows.

“Ready, little man?” Sara asks as she spins a staff in hand.

Damian hefts his two swords and echoes Fahd al Rasadat’s wide grin

“Let’s do it.”

***

Dinner in Ra’s’s intimate study is always one of the highlights of their time in Nanda Parbat. While their hold on the League is much stronger than it was when Damian was born, Paradise Island (just “The Island” in League speak) is still the safest place to raise Ra’s al Ghul’s grandchildren. They see him almost exclusively in Nanda Parbat, and they see him rarely at that. No more than they see Sara’s own parents, and, messed up as it is, Sara does love him as a parent. Ever since their understanding in Coast City over a decade ago, they’ve reestablished the peaceful affection that had allowed Sara to survive fleeing the League in the first place, Heir’s Beloved or not.

And here in his study, their small family drawn around his rich mahogany table, is the Ra’s she loves the most. He throws his head back, the candlelight catching in the grey-flecked, close-cropped hair – Nyssa’s and Damian’s hair – of his head and face, and he laughs at Soraya’s antics. He leans close to hear soft-spoken Azra’s opinions and nods thoughtfully, saying he’ll take them under advisement. He praises Damian’s progression both with the bow and his lessons, leaving the boy beaming. He speaks of Nyssa’s handling of an inter-ranks dispute to the children as a prime example of strong, good leadership, pride in his voice, though he rarely speaks those things directly to her.

Here, he is not their commander nor their god: just their grandfather.

“I believe Damian should join us in council tomorrow,” Ra’s is saying to Nyssa, and Sara steals a look at her beloved, still beautiful as ever, more so for the easy confidence in her bearing and the soft lines around her mouth.

“As you wish, Father,” Nyssa nods, sipping at her wine.

“I think-“ Damian starts, but corrects: “May Azra join as well, Jeddy?”

Ra’s looks up from feeding spoiled Rocket scraps from his plate, just her ears visible from her spot in his lap.

“Azra?” he asks, the surprise in his voice reflecting Sara’s own.

“Yes,” Damian nods once. “She is very smart, and she notices _everything_.”

“You have only recently begun to join us with any regularity. Is Azra old enough?”

“Yes, Jeddy.”

Ra’s is thoughtful again. He turns his attention back to Azra.

“What do you think, young Al Thill?”

Sara bites back her own opinion. She will only give it if asked, and it is purely “She’s just a baby!” anyway.

Azra looks up to meet her grandfather’s eyes with her ethereal grey ones. She is shy in new settings, still, but her quietness among family is not fear but… contemplation, Nyssa always says.

“I can do it, Jeddy.”

Ra’s nods, attention back on Damian.

“I have my doubts as to whether she can manage an entire meeting, something you still struggle with, Faris,” he says pointedly.

Damian’s eyes hit the table.

“But we shall try it,” Ra’s continues. “You shall be responsible for her, and if she cannot stay still and on task, you will forfeit your own opportunity and return with her to your quarters.”

“Yes, Jeddy.”

“Do you also agree, Azra?”

“Yes, Jeddy!”

“Wonderful. Is that settled then, or do you also think Al Ameerah should be joining us?” Ra’s teases, earning a bright smile from Azra and a laugh from Damian.

The baby girl in question is still shoving dinner into her mouth, mostly with her hands, making her antique wooden highchair an absolute mess. Her dark hair is wild in a halo around her face. When she notices everyone looking at her, she stops, hand full of rice almost to her lips.

“Okay?” she asks, setting off another round of affectionate laughter at the table.

“I think she needs to wait a while,” Damian giggles.

“A _long_ while,” Nyssa says, tenderly, leaning over to wipe a bit of the mess away. Sara knows, though, that it’s going to take a whole bath to clean the curry off their youngest, no matter how much Nyssa futilely fusses over her.

“Very well, then,” Ra’s says. “On to more pressing matters: dessert.”

***

Sara wakes to an empty bed, studiously forgetting it is Christmas Eve morning. Nyssa being gone is not _that_ odd – her duties keep her very busy here – but where the heck is Rocket? She stretches, seeing if the pup is wedged somewhere in a blanket nest, but Rocket is nowhere to be found, either. She must have escaped to the children’s rooms, or even Ra’s’s, a thought that still always makes Sara smirk to herself.

Sara pulls herself out of bed and wanders over the wardrobe. There’s a gentle knock on the door to her quarters.

“Enter,” she calls formally, glancing over her shoulder and grinning when she sees her visitor.

“Hey, Azzy, whatcha doin’ here?”

“Coming to get you,” Azra says, eyes alight with the tiniest bit of mischief. She’s dressed in her mini-League blacks, but her wild curls are untamed. “Can you braid my hair first, please?”

“Of course,” Sara smiles, beckoning her over to the couch and joining her there. Azra hands her two red and white striped hair ties. Sara grins wider, kissing the top of Azra’s head. A little bit of Christmas, at least.

Sara makes quick work of two braids in the companionable silence, Azra’s silky hair slipping through her fingers, then asks: “You said first, so now what?”

“You get dressed.” Azra wrinkles her nose. “And brush your teeth.”

“Rude.”

Azra giggles. Sara does as she’s told.

“So, I assume since you’re in here bossing me around, you’re under orders?” Sara calls back from the en suite.

“Mama’s.”

“Aha.” Sara knew it. And even though they’re nearly two years into this parenting with actual parenting names thing, she still gets a sweet little thrill from hearing the girl call Nyssa that. “Where is she?”

“Busy.”

“Descriptive,” Sara says wryly around her toothbrush.

In the mirror behind her, leaning in the doorframe, Azra shrugs eloquently.

Sara finishes up efficiently, dresses in her own League standards, and offers a hand to Azra, which the girl gladly takes.

“And now?” Sara asks.

“The kitchens.”

“The kitchens?”

“It’s breakfast time.”

“But we eat in the –“ Sara starts.

Azra silences her with a withering look.

“Alright, alright.”

***

Nanda Parbat’s kitchens are a perfect reflection of the entire complex: ancient sandstone and timeworn wood easily intermixed with the latest in modern technology. They also smell amazing - all the time.

On the broad marble of the prep island sits not breakfast, but a large mixing bowl, a heavy wooden rolling pin, and a few bent metal pieces. Plus, an ungodly amount of flour.

“Are those-“

“I helped Al Tashkil make them,” Azra says casually, as if hanging out with the League’s lead blacksmith were any everyday occurrence. Hell, maybe it is; Sara can sometimes lose track of the kids here in the fortress, where they are always followed by a Red and Gold bodyguard (Talibah is outside the door right now) and Nyssa or Ra’s is liable to grab them for something or other without any notice to Sara.

Sara tells herself making cookie cutters probably didn’t involve _too_ much fire.

“So, we’re having cookies for breakfast?” Sara asks, squeezing Azra’s small shoulders. She can’t help herself from leaning over to kiss the part on the top of her head again.

“No,” Azra laughs, pointing to the tray with fruit, nut, and steaming black coffee tucked on a nearby counter. Sara immediately grabs for the hot caffeine.

“Oh, thank god. So, when are your siblings getting here?” Sara asks, gratefully sipping from the mug.

Azra shakes her head.

“They have another duty. Just us.”

Just them. Making Christmas cut out cookies with freshly made tin stars and trees crafted by an ancient Vietnamese man known for his lethal skill. Yes, a Nanda Parbat Christmas indeed.

And the kitchens are deserted, giving them a bit of privacy, to be a little silly.

Sara senses Nyssa’s fingerprints all over this. She eats a couple nuts, takes a bite of a sinfully well ripened orange slice.

“Wait… did you say _Soraya_ has another duty this morning?”

***

Later, basket of fresh cookies firmly in hand, Azra insists they go down to the main gate, handing a cookie to each sentry as the enter the little courtyard that acts as an airlock between Nanda Parbat and the world outside. The sentries gratefully, quietly accept the sweets, obviously not expecting the Demon’s granddaughter to show up with seasonal treats. Sara tries not to smile too much at them, trying to maintain some semblance of discipline.

There is a sloping awning over half the yard, but the rest is open air, and a fair amount of snow has accumulated from the days of storms. There is a very brief lull for now, though, the sky clear and blue above. Sara is staring up into it, too many cookies heavy in her belly, when an ice-cold missile catches her square in the hip.

She looks to see Azra waving at her with a downright impish smile, caught literally red handed, her little fingers showing tell-tale signs of just holding a snowball. Sara gasps, mock-affronted, and reaches for her. Azra squeals and dodges.

It’s been a special kind of Christmas miracle to spend a few hours with just her middle child, who is so often at Nyssa’s side that it earned her her League name – the Shadow. Sara tries to equally spend time with all three, but it doesn’t tend to shake out naturally to just the two of them. She relishes it.

A few minutes into what is turning out to be an epic snowball fight, the sentries signal for the smallest of the gates to be opened. As they do so, Sara grabs Azra up – one never knows what may be trying to get through Nanda Parbat’s gates. But the sentries don’t seem alarmed, so Sara isn’t _too_ surprised when Rocket comes hurtling through as soon as the gate is opened the tiniest bit.

Sara laughs and sets Azra down on the snowy ground to scoop up the shivering little pup. The pup whose head and neck are wrapped tightly in a red woolen scarf, in addition to wearing the finest dog parka Sara has ever seen. Rocket looks _miserable_ , affronted at the snow on her paws. Her big eyes plead for sanctuary.

“Don’t believe her whining,” Damian calls breathlessly as he follows Rocket through the gate, dragging something heavy. “I carried her the whole way.” He pauses and, rope still in mittened hand, pats the sling across his chest.

There’s snow in the hair that sticks out from his League hood, cheeks red with cold and dark blue eyes bright with exertion. Beside him, Nyssa gives Sara a smile with only her eyes, face similarly cold-pinkened and a very bundled up Soraya strapped to her chest. She leads a horse that must have carried Damian’s burden most of the way. 

Sara resists the urge for a discouraged public display of affection, but her own eyes must say _something_ because Nyssa’s cold blush darkens into something much, much warmer.

“Where have you been?” Sara starts as the ragtag bunch fully enters the courtyard. Nyssa hands the horse off to a groom, and Azra runs to help Damian with his rope. Sara finally gets a good look at what he’s dragging and feels herself smile so wide it hurts. “Is that a Christmas tree?”

“Himalayan style!” Damian cries.

***

They must be quite a sight, the whole group of them carrying a conifer through Nanda Parbat’s winding halls, but, well, rank does have its privileges.

Within no time, they are back in their quarters, turning it into a little bit of Christmas cheer. Sara has Soraya on her hip, the toddler humming scraps of carols, while they watch Damian survey the respectably sized tree. His hands are on his hips, the red and gold silks he acquired as decoration in a box at his feet. He stoops to pick one out and hold it experimentally in a position.

“Looks good,” Sara encourages, bouncing Soraya. A trek into the Himalayan woods appears to have been enough to tire the toddler – for now.

“We’ll see,” Damian says absently. Azra scoops up another scarf and awaits her orders. Damian continues. “We need more shiny. What about your throwing knives, Mom?”

Sara almost says yes, provided they’re placed high enough in the tree, but she thinks about the incredible climbing skills of the little one currently, misleadingly dozing with her head on her shoulder and rethinks, quickly.

“Eh. Not until Soraya’s a little older.”

Nyssa appears beside her, with a rich, deep chuckle and two mugs in hand, steam curling above the rims of them.

“The matching pajamas will have to wait until we return to the villa,” Nyssa says, handing over a mug. “Unless you think wearing our uniforms to sleep would count.”

There is certainly a note of hope in Nyssa’s voice but Sara has no qualms crushing that.

“It would not,” Sara beams at her, remembering the embarrassing Grinch-themed onesies awaiting them all back on Paradise Island, ordered weeks ago.

“I have, however,” Nyssa continues, “Acquired a copy of A Muppet Christmas Carol.”

Sara gasps, pushing up on her toes to kiss her warmly, sweetly. She’d yank her closer, but she’s holding Soraya on her hip with one hand and has a steaming mug in the other.

“You’re so dreamy.”

“I did not wish to rob you of your Christmas,” Nyssa says. “Simply because of the combination of duty and weather.”

“You did great. Overachiever,” Sara teases. Nyssa always has gone above and beyond.

“Unfortunately, you relocated a certain set of colored lights to the Island years ago.”

Of course she did. Sara remembers those twinkly lights and what they did under them in this very room that first Christmas very fondly. That’s why they now hang in their suite back in the villa at this time of year.

“Damian’s making do,” Sara says turning to watch Damian and Azra wrap the silks around the tree, pressing her shoulder into Nyssa’s side. She lowers her voice, “And so can we, tonight.”

Soraya sighs a sleepy _Jingle Bells_ against Sara’s neck. Nyssa puts an arm around Sara warmly.

“Don’t scandalize the children.”

“I said _tonight_ ,” Sara says. “Plus, So’s half asleep, and those two can’t hear me.”

She gestures with her chin to the sweetly cooperating duo, Damian lifting Azra so she can drape a red scarf near the top.

“They are League-raised. They hear more than you think.”

“Thank god for stone walls.”

That gets a bark of laughter out of Nyssa, who tightens her arm around Sara and kisses the top of her head.

Sara finally takes a sip from her mug, savoring the rich hot chocolate and-

“Alright. Where the _hell_ did you get marshmallows in Nanda Parbat?”

***

fin


End file.
